


fate has locked its door, so climb through the window

by whittler_of_words



Category: Hyper Light Drifter
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Hallucinations, Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 06:11:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11202090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whittler_of_words/pseuds/whittler_of_words
Summary: Neither of you are used to being around people, anymore.When you come back from patrol or getting supplies from town, he looks at you like he hates you, sometimes. You wonder if he would’ve preferred you left him in the woods to die.





	fate has locked its door, so climb through the window

Neither of you are used to being around people, anymore.

You can see it in the way he doesn’t quite flinch at every unexpected noise. How he watches the door for long stretches of time, unable to sit still under blankets he sometimes treats as a prison, as if it were they confining him to the bed and not the illness taking issue with his every effort to stand. He’d tried to leave, the day after he’d woken in the house you took him to, and for a moment you’d both thought the worst of it was over -- only for his face to blanche under his mask as his lungs tore themselves apart from the inside. 

When you come back from patrol or getting supplies from town, he looks at you like he hates you, sometimes. You wonder if he would’ve preferred you left him in the woods to die. You wonder if he knows the Jackal has other plans for him.

_ _

You don’t talk much. He doesn’t talk at all, and you’d almost be relieved for that if he wasn’t someone who still had very much to say. His bed is littered with pages torn from a notebook he pulled out from under his cloak, and they’re all covered in questions. Hardly an hour goes by without his hud pinging for your attention, asking, asking, asking, and if there was any doubt in your mind that this man was a drifter, it’s long gone now.

 _Is this house yours?_ one reads. Messy scrawl on the paper.

“It’s no one’s,” you answer.

_Are you a drifter?_

“Yes.”

_How did you find me? The path through to where I was is hidden._

“I was led.”

_Could you be more vague?_

“I have things to do.” You rise from your seat near the bed. You don’t miss the way his eyes narrow, but you choose to ignore it. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

All of your conversations are much the same from there. He asks questions until you can’t make yourself answer them anymore, and maybe it’s cruel, to leave him alone in the dusty house for hours on end, but sometimes you think he does it to drive you away on purpose.

The hard part isn’t helping people; you’ve been doing that your whole life, whenever you were able. But you’re used to solving problems with your blade and leaving first chance. Having to stick around to actually deal with the person you’ve helped is something you’re not accustomed to at all.

It’s been a very long time since you last cared for someone hacking their lungs out in your bed. You try your hardest to forget.

_ _

The water submerging your boots is magenta. It smells like nothing, but the color and sound as it sloshes when you walk keeps you from looking down lest it turns any closer to blood. There is something white in the distance, glowing. You know it can’t be anything else but what you’ve been looking for.

Something cold snakes up your back. You turn around.

The centipede behind you looms. Its eye is pink, pulsing, and its pincers open wide, dripping your wife’s blood, dripping your child’s blood; you draw your sword before you can think. It doesn’t even flinch. It looks down at you from so very high, and even with the form it takes, Judgement looks at you like you are the bug. Small, helpless. Something to be crushed underfoot.

It bites your head off.

And then you wake up.

Your hair sticks to your forehead, damp with sweat as it is, and your breath hitches uncomfortably when you inhale. There is no copper tang -- one small reprieve -- but the cool metal table where you’d fallen asleep feels almost too cool even through your gloves, and you can only guess how long you’ve been out of it.

The drifter is awake, though, and looking at you.

You suddenly can’t remember if you still talk in your sleep. You don’t think you want to. You pick up your helmet from where you’d set it beside you instead of thinking about it any more, ignoring how uncomfortable the metal feels as you put it on. You don’t say anything as you leave. The drifter doesn’t try to stop you.

You sleep outside after that.

_ _

Two weeks after you first found him, you come back to the house to find that the drifter is gone.

There’s little sign of him having ever been here. If it weren’t for the bed, more perfectly made than you ever bothered to fix it, you might’ve wondered whether he ever existed in the first place. If he had the energy to do that and be out of town before you returned, then he really must be feeling better.

But is he well enough to leave for good?

You almost convince yourself that he chose to leave and is therefore no longer your responsibility. Then you imagine finding him somewhere, cold and broken and dead because of your carelessness, and you sigh heavily before beginning the search.

You would have walked right past him if it weren’t for his hud pinging as you walked by.

Somehow, you’d expected him to make it farther than the dregs of the northern mountains, yet there you find him, tucked barely-conscious inside a small niche in the rock face. You’ll give him one thing: he knows how to hide well.

Not so good at staying put, though.

Aside from the initial ping of his hud, he does little to acknowledge your presence. He’s leaning heavily against the rocks for support, eyes half-lidded, and it doesn’t take much more than that to guess he won’t be able to stay on his feet long enough to return back to town. You would just carry him back, except...

 _Dont touch unless to loot my corpse,_ reads the barely-legible writing on the open page of the notebook in his lap.

You sigh. Again.

It’s fully dark by the time the drifter stirs. The firelight throws his face into sharp relief under his helmet. He grumbles to himself, you think. It’s either that or a groan.

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” you say.

He flips you off. More than anything, you wonder how much that simple gesture cost him.

“I don’t want to lecture you.” You throw a wayward twig into the fire, already resigned to a night of keeping watch. “I’m just making sure you’re safe. You are not allowed to die here.”

You don’t check to see what look the drifter gives you at the strange comment. You can see the Jackal watching you both from under a tree across the cliff, her eyes twin pink stars in the darkness. Even from so far away, she looms. You don’t need any sort of vision to know what it is she wants; her eyes on you are enough. 

There are things that need to be done. You can’t stay playing a corrupted house forever.

It’s the drifter who has nightmares tonight. He doesn’t cry out, but he wakes up with a start several times, panting and sweating. Even making a point not to watch, you can see him in your peripheral fighting to stay awake before inevitably succumbing to exhaustion each time, starting the process all over again. It’s something you’re intimately familiar with from both ends of the spectrum, and you wish there was something you could do to ease his sleep when he needs it so badly, despite yourself. 

But in the end, all you can do is keep watch for the other dangers. 

So you do, until the sun rises.

_ _

With how little there is to do in the house, it was inevitable that you two would be cornered into a conversation eventually.

It starts with a map; one of your more indulgent projects, everything drawn by hand with traditional paper and ink instead of uploaded to your hud through a more typical data transfer. The drifter’s gotten his hands on it, somehow, splayed over his legs on the bed, and you only have the time to wonder how he even found it before he’s waving for you to come closer.

The note he holds out to you looks like it’s been written much in advance, which is the first surprise. The second is that unlike the usual one-liners and quips, this is a veritable paragraph.

_This map is very accurate, but there are a few critical mistakes in the key that you either overlooked or have glaring misconceptions about. First of all, you marked the building parallel to the western shoreline as the “Crypt” when it’s true purpose is that of a gallery. This is an understandable mistake, but clearly the building itself is Librarian in origin, and to leave that information out even if the place has no official name can only be described as ignorant._

You look up. The drifter taps his finger against the pencil still in his hand.

“Secondly?” you ask. He waves his hand in a perfect mix of “dismissive” and “impatience”, which you can only guess means it doesn’t matter. 

“It was no oversight,” you start evenly. “I’ve been to the location in person, as I assume you have. There’s no clear marker that the building or its purpose had anything to do with the Librarians, and the name itself was a placeholder for the fact that there’s no obvious purpose in the first place.”

You don’t even finish talking before the drifter has started writing again, furiously. _That’s ridiculous,_ the note starts. _If you’ve been there, you’d realize how obvious it is from the abundance of pink technology and architecture. Since when have the racoons or the birds built anything looking like that?_ Even with most of his face covered, you could still swear there’s a smug smile under that mask as you finish reading.

“If the architecture is Librarian, then the first question I’d ask would be why there aren’t more buildings like it.” You drop the note back on the bed, already done with this conversation. “For a supposedly abundant and widespread race, there’s very little physical evidence of their existence aside from ancient glyphs and passed down oral traditions. I agree with most in that those stories must exist for a reason, but to give credit where no credit is properly due is not something I’m interested in.”

This, apparently, is the wrong thing to say, because the drifter goes to write with enough force that his pencil snaps in two before he can finish the first word.

Resisting the urge to rub your face under your helmet, you turn back to the table in the other room, rooting around the papers scattered on top until you find what you need. The drifter is glaring at his broken pencil when you return, only to turn the glare on you when you hold the pen out for him to take. When he does, he still doesn’t look very pleased about it.

“I’m curious,” you say, and you can tell from the way he blinks that he was probably expecting you to just turn around and leave again. “What is it that has you so convinced? You mentioned it was meant to be a gallery.”

By the time the conversation is over, the drifter has run out of paper and your voice is hoarse, but the air feels lighter somehow, and you can only wonder where there’s left to go from here.

_ _

You’re walking through town when you see him.

For once, the fact that the drifter is outside doesn’t surprise you; he’s been improving rapidly after his last excursion, enough to walk outside to sit by the warp pad with no assistance, resigned but willing to wait. That he would walk just a little further to stand over the disabled module-powered lift in the middle of the town isn’t a huge leap to make.

“It’s curious, isn’t it,” you say, walking to stand next to him. He doesn’t turn to look. “That what we need to end our journey is so close.”

A crow stands on the middle of the diamond, pecking intermittently at the moss-covered platform. The drifter, finally, looks at you.

Only to dissipate into ash the second you draw your sword.

Your pace back to the house is quick. You don’t have to look very hard; the drifter is outside again, looking like he’d fallen asleep against the wall of the house, and you kneel down next to him in the grass.

The bottom half of his face is covered as always. But the skin you can see is blue, and his eyes are closed, breathing even, and you stand back up on legs just this side of shaky.

You should have noticed even before it had shown you its lack of a face. The desaturated color of its clothes, the absence of the drifter’s bot; you should know by now that letting yourself relax only creates more cracks for Judgement’s influence to slip through. You know better than to become complacent.

Except you don’t, apparently. Figures.

You ping your hud until the sound of it causes the drifter to wake. “I’ve heard rumours of a module here in the north,” you say, pointing to the map projected on the ground in front of you as the drifter rubs his eyes. “It’s vital that I confirm its location at the least, and retrieve it at best. I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning if you wish to join me.”

The drifter’s head jerks up from the map to look at you. For the first time you’ve seen, there’s something like excitement in his eyes, even though the only other reaction he gives you is a mild thumbs up. You can appreciate the sentiment.

You step into the house and begin to prepare.

_ _

It’s something else to see the drifter in action. The speed with which he moves in battle is a far cry from the sluggish, exhausted demeanor you’ve seen so much of, and it’s a pleasant surprise to have to try and keep up with _him,_ when it’s not annoying. You’d been worried that the cold mountain air would irritate his lungs like it so often does yours, but he shows no signs of being sick; if anything, it seems to have revitalized him.

Your path leads you to a lift just off the cliffside, taking you down inside the mountain. Drifter leaves you to finish picking off a flock of vultures dressed in the robes of the cult that’s been ravaging the mountainside, sparing you no time to call for him to wait as he drifts across a gap to what you can only guess is a ledge you can’t see. It’s hardly a minute before he’s back, eyes somehow crinkled smugly as he tosses up a gearbit for his hud to download, but you know a badly hidden limp when you see one. Biting your tongue, you loosen your gun from its holster and turn down to the next room. 

The drifter isn’t the only one struggling by the end of it; you’re not coughing yet, but your lungs are tight, and you can already tell you’re a few too many quick movements close to the room starting to spin. Vultures and wolves may be one thing, but you’re starting to think the biomechanical leapers littering this place may force you to turn back. 

The hardest part of that being having to convince the drifter to stop. He activates the switch disabling the raised blocks barring your escape from the side of the room you’ve been trapped in before you can so much as take stock of the situation, jerking away from it as a hum fills the room. There’s the sound of something heavy crashing against the walls repeatedly.

You don’t even try resisting the urge to rub your face under your helmet, this time.

You’d been hoping those trap blocks would stay deactivated. Guess not.

Drifter shrugs unapologetically, moving past you to study the simple pattern before drifting through, and you follow suit quickly after, more afraid that he’ll move on to cause more havoc without you than that he’ll get hurt. He’s just standing by the door to the next room, though, and while he doesn’t bother waiting for you to catch your breath before opening it, it’s almost touching.

The next room is overwhelming in how loud it is from the blocks crashing against the walls. The drifter flinches from the suddenness of it. 

And then he collapses.

You turn him onto his side immediately, afraid that he’ll suffocate on his own blood, only to find that the concern is unnecessary; there’s no pink seeping tellingly through his mask, and his chest rises and falls without difficulty. The fact that he refuses to stir doesn’t do much to assuage your fears any further.

You’re just about resigned to carry him back into town when he gasps, choking on a cough as he struggles to sit up. 

“Are you--” _alright,_ you begin to ask, only to be interrupted as the drifter furiously begins to pat himself down, fisting his fingers into his cloak when he apparently doesn’t find what he’s looking for. His notebook, you realize; he must have forgotten it back at the house. Climbing to his feet (laboriously, the strain in his shoulders as he lurches upright is almost painful to look at), he glares at the still moving puzzle for a moment, and then you, and the puzzle again.

“Can you keep going?” you ask. You probably shouldn’t even be asking in the first place. Even if there was no blood, collapsing for minutes on end out of nowhere is hardly a good sign, especially with the risk involved in a place like this; he was lucky the only enemies here are the moving blocks, and not the vultures. 

But there’s an itching at the back of your skull. You’re close.

The drifter answers by narrowing his eyes at you, and then nodding once. You nod back, stepping forward-- only for the drifter to hold up an arm, barring your path. He holds up a hand when you look to him, the universal gesture for _wait,_ and then points two fingers at your face before turning them around and pointing at his own.

Wait and watch. That’s something you’re more than capable of.

He doesn’t move for a moment. You’re expecting him to study the blocks’ patterns, but all it takes is a bracing breath in and out before he’s darting into the fray, cloak trailing behind him. You take a step forward, despite yourself, reaching forward as if to pull him back, but it proves to be unnecessary; the second he’s past the first block, he drifts through them with an ease you never would’ve thought to expect. You do your best to commit the pattern to memory. 

And then you follow.

Once again, the drifter is the one who leads you through the next rows of blocks, expertly enough that you would almost think he’s been here before. You mention this casually, in a small break between dodging. All he does is shrug. You do not miss the stiffness of the gesture, and you let the subject drop.

After the blocks have been officially navigated, the drifter spares them a last glare where they continue moving behind you both, a triumphant set in his shoulders as he makes to move toward the next room. You do not follow.

“Ah,” you start. And then stop. The drifter pauses mid-step, giving you a blank look as you pay careful attention to a pattern in the stone wall next to you. “I’m afraid this is as far as I go, for now.”

The sound of the drifter’s raised foot falling back to the earth is almost more of a punctuation than any actual words might have been. There’s disbelief etched into the furrow of his brow, and maybe frustration along with it. Even still, you don’t falter in your stance.

“The module will likely be in the next room,” you offer, motioning in the appropriate direction. “The base goal for this trip was to confirm its location, and we’ve accomplished that. You can continue forward to do as you like. I go no further.”

The drifter looks at you. And then the blocks, and then you again, as if to say, _Really? After all of that?_ He huffs when you don’t say anything else. Or scoffs. Whatever the case, he turns away from you, opening the holo-locked door and stepping through to the other side. After a moment, his receding figure is obscured when the pink light stitches itself back together.

The itching in your skull roars like an ocean trying to break free of its shell.

“You should give up.”

The algorithm for displaying the location of the module on the map is a familiar one. Your hud has had ample time over past excursions to recognize the signature of pink energy, and setting the condition of the display to change color depending on the strength of the energy output is something you’ve done plenty of times before. There’s one thing to be said about these virtual maps: if the core model changes, every copy of it will as well. Although who knows if the drifter will even notice. He doesn’t seem to be the type to recognize those sorts of details.

“How far must you push yourself? To the edge? Over it?”

Waving your hand to change the screen’s display, you nod to yourself at what you see there. If you remember correctly, one of the shopkeepers in Central had been fiddling with a new gear they were planning on selling soon -- with any luck, they’ll be willing to at least set some aside for you if you pay in advance, if they don’t have it out already. You have more than enough gearbits to last. 

“Why are you ignoring me?”

You think you’ll stock up on some ammo while you’re still in town, as well. Being prepared never hurt anyone.

“You’ve forgotten your promise.”

“I have _not,_ ” you say, before you can think, “forgotten _anything._ ”

Her boots shift just in your peripheral, tattered cloak trailing over the stone with the movement. “Then what are you doing?”

You haven’t had an answer to that in a very long time.

“Come home, Guardian,” your wife says. “We’ve been waiting for so long.” And then, a moment later, her form scatters like ash, dissipating like it was never there. Like it never was. You take a deep, deep breath.

There’s a reason people go looking for the modules and never come back. You can guess what happens; comrades in groups, made to think they’re killing enemies when they’re slaughtering friends. Those weak to certain influences would hallucinate things that aren’t there, or worse. And you are very weak.

If the Jackal wanted someone who could get close enough to the modules to collect them, she did not choose wisely.

\--

Back in Central, you do not watch as the drifter sets the module he’d retrieved into the topmost power node of the deactivated lift. But you can feel it. You call up your map when it pings, and you stare at the small bunch of pink pixels for several moments before waving the image away.

You get the feeling things are about to change very quickly.

Drifter tenses when he sees you waiting for him on the edge of town. Holding up what you hope is a placating hand, you take a moment to gather your words before speaking. You were never one to be good at farewells.

“You asked me whose house it was, before,” you start, and the drifter’s eyes narrow, the gears in his head almost visibly starting to turn at your words. “I said it was no one’s. That’s no longer true. If you want it, the house is yours.”

He balks visibly. It’s almost enough to make you laugh. When he scrawls into his notebook, holding it up for you to see, there’s only one word there, taking up nearly the whole page.

_Why?_

Because...

“That building has been used as a resting place for drifters for a long time,” you supply. “I suppose it wouldn’t be entirely yours, given that, but with things the way they are, you’d likely be the only one using it.” 

When drifter jabs a finger in your direction, the meaning is clear. _What about you?_

“I’ll be using it for a while longer. Once I’ve finished what I need to do here, I’ll no longer need it.”

He scrutinizes you for a long moment. As if searching for a hidden meaning in your words, or the punchline, or a lie. You’re not sure what he finds.

 _I never wanted a house,_ is all he writes.

“Then don’t take it,” you tell him. “But the offer will remain open regardless.”

You stride past him. Back towards Central. Back towards the town. Back towards a purpose you doubt is yours anymore; the Jackal chose well, this time, when she chose the drifter. You just hope it doesn’t cost him.

The drifter’s hand on your arm stops you in your tracks. There’s something in the expression he’s wearing; a message in a language you don’t know well enough to decipher, and you’re not sure you want to. You toss around _anger_ and and _resentment_ and _fear_ before deciding that none of them seem to fit, only for the drifter to punch your arm and make you wonder if anger wasn’t the right one after all. And then he leaves.

You can’t help but laugh to yourself, then. 

Like it or not, you’re sure you’ll see each other again. 

**Author's Note:**

> i like to imagine guardian is at least as useless at socializing as drifter is. these fools think wandering the woods and nearly dying all the time is good for ur people skills smh


End file.
